


Sleep Well, Barry (I Might Kill You in the Morning)

by RetroactiveCon



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Creepy Eobard Thawne | Harrison Wells, Manipulative Eobard Thawne | Harrison Wells, Young Barry Allen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:13:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: Eobard stares at the small boy standing, lost and adrift, in his foyer. He schools his face into a mask of friendliness rather than the loathing he feels even for this tiny, harmless version of Barry Allen. He would as soon strike the boy dead as speak a word to him, but according to Gideon, this is his only chance to return to his time. Without his intervention, Barry Allen will die of neglect within the next year.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Sleep Well, Barry (I Might Kill You in the Morning)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a Princess Bride reference, because my family kept texting it at me and it fits.

Eobard stares at the small boy standing, lost and adrift, in his foyer. He schools his face into a mask of friendliness rather than the loathing he feels even for this tiny, harmless version of Barry Allen. He would as soon strike the boy dead as speak a word to him, but according to Gideon, this is his only chance to return to his time. Without his intervention, Barry Allen will die of neglect within the next year. 

“It’s cold,” Barry says. He’s holding a careworn stuffed tiger by its front paw. Were he any other child, he would look unspeakably adorable. 

“I can turn up the heat.” Eobard finds it hard to believe even such a delicately built boy is cold. Since the loss of his speed, and with it his enhanced metabolism, he’s kept his house almost intolerably warm. 

“No.” Barry shakes his head and swings his tiger, evidently indicating the whole room. “I mean it looks cold. Not like a house where people can live.” He crushes his tiger to his chest. “If I touch things, will you hit me or not let me eat?” 

Eobard could. It truly is tempting, but unfortunately, he needs the boy to remain of reasonably sound mind if he is to mold him into the Flash. He affects his gentlest tone and coos, “Of course not.”

Barry stares at him, uncharacteristic wariness in his big eyes. “I won’t tell anyone,” he promises. “I told my dad about Ms. Jody, and she locked me in a closet when she found out.” He shudders and curls around his tiger. “I never want that to happen again.” 

Of course he doesn’t. At his core, Barry Allen is a purely social being—he thrives on love, affection, connection. Being kept isolated for any length of time would be worse for him than a beating. Knowing this, Eobard steps closer and lays a hand on Barry’s tiny shoulder. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he lies. “Come here, let’s find someplace to put your things.” 

Were Barry not touch-starved from two months of neglect and abuse, he would never permit Eobard to touch him. He would consider it the height of disloyalty to his imprisoned father. Because of the prolonged absence of touch, he can’t help nuzzling closer to Eobard’s hand. “Do I get a bed?” he asks. “A real bed, like in a house, not a mattress on the floor.” 

Eobard smiles. He played no part in selecting the woman who took Barry in, but she couldn’t have primed him better. “Of course.” 

He shows Barry to a modestly furnished guest room. The closet stands empty and waiting, the chest of drawers is unadorned; however, Eobard took the liberty of buying red-and-gold patterned sheets and a small night light shaped like Mars. It’s to the night light that Barry is first drawn; he drops the handle of his suitcase and scampers over to examine it. To Eobard’s amusement, he looks but doesn’t touch. “This is for me?” 

“Yes.” Eobard lingers in the doorway. It will be best to make Barry feel like this is his space, that it will always be safe and sacred; that way, any trespass will rip that security away from him. “I was told you suffer from nightmares.”

“Not nightmares,” Barry replies matter-of-factly. “I don’t like the dark. The man in the lightning came in the dark.” With a certain awe, he coos, “Now he can’t get me.” 

In that moment, a cruel scheme occurs to Eobard. How better to drive this small, terrified boy closer to his kindly new foster father than with the intervention of the very thing he fears most? 

Eobard waits two days to give Barry time to settle in. He does so more quickly and easily than Eobard expected, perhaps because of an exchange they have on the first night: 

“Do you think I’m crazy?” 

This question comes out of nowhere. Eobard glances at the boy, who’s seated cross-legged on the floor playing with his tiger, and asks, “What do you mean?”

“Everyone thinks I’m crazy,” Barry reports. “The police did, and the lawyer did, and Ms. Jody did, but I know what I saw. There was a man in the lightning.” 

“No.” Eobard crosses the room in a few swift strides and kneels down beside the boy. Barry watches him, shifting his weight none-too-subtly away. Despite Eobard’s reassurances, he’s afraid of being hurt. “I believe you. Do you want to know why?”

Barry nods. 

“I’ve seen him too, the man in the lightning.” Eobard means Barry himself, years in the future. This tiny, traumatized version of him has no way to know that, of course. “He was beautiful, Barry. Oh, he was fierce and powerful and terrible to behold, but he was beautiful, too.”

Barry nods and whispers reverently, “You have seen him. Did he hurt you?”

“Yes.” Eobard wishes, not for the first time, that he had scars left from his battles with the Flash. Not only would they not have transferred to this new body, they never lasted more than a day. “Many times. Sometimes I thought he would kill me.” 

Barry nods and stares down at the tile. Eobard is about to prompt him when he whispers, “He killed my mom and I don’t know why.” 

“To hurt you, Barry.” Eobard sees no reason to lie. Let the boy grow up knowing he was the cause of his mother’s death; nothing will be better motivation. With that thought in his mind, he’ll be eager to become the Flash and equally ready to embrace death when the time comes. “He killed her to watch you suffer.”

Barry nods. He doesn’t ask how Eobard knows; he merely accepts this as fact. Eobard hides a smile. If someone else—anyone else—had feigned belief in the boy’s tale, they would have won Barry’s trust as easily as he just did. Fortunately for him, that small kindness was beyond them.

Secure in the knowledge that Eobard believes him, Barry adapts rapidly to his new living arrangements. Eobard makes sure to give him space. Pushing for a connection will drive Barry away; he needs to grieve, and if he’s given the space he needs, he’ll eventually seek Eobard out. A little push in the form of the Reverse Flash will only catalyze that new bond. 

On the second night, Eobard lingers outside the room, watching through a crack in the door as Barry slips into his pajamas, turns off the overhead light, and burrows under the covers with his face turned toward the night light. Like the first night, Barry fights a losing battle to stay awake. He wants to be vigilant, but he’s warm, well-fed, and safe (so he thinks). Eobard waits until his eyelids grow heavy; then he pulls on the yellow suit and steps through the door. Without his speed, he’s had to get creative: sheer red fabric covers his eyes, while sheer black fabric obscures the lower portion of his face. Barry will be able to identify the outlines of his features, but he’ll have no chance of recognizing his devoted foster father. 

The effect on Barry is immediate. His heavy eyes spring open; one little finger stretches accusatorily toward him. “You killed her!” he yells. 

Eobard takes a slow, measured step forward. If he could, he would dart to the bedside just to watch Barry scramble away. Unexpectedly, perhaps goaded by his leisurely pace, Barry launches himself out of bed and flies at him, tiny hands balled into fists. 

“You killed her!” he yells again and lands a pitiful punch against Eobard’s side. 

This truly is too easy. The boy isn’t even trying to run. Eobard backhands him across the face hard enough to knock him to his knees. While he’s still dazed from the blow, he kneels down, grabs him by the throat, and squeezes. 

“Don’t scream,” he growls. He mustn’t damage Barry severely enough to send him to the hospital; it might raise suspicions about ‘Harrison Wells.’ There’s no harm in leaving a few bruises, though; Barry had three months to learn to hide those. 

He keeps one hand on Barry’s throat and punches with the other. The boy makes soft, pitiful, choked noises with each blow. His eyes grow heavy for the second time that night; by the time the final blow lands against his chest, he’s slumped forward in Eobard’s grasp, limp and unconscious. When Eobard releases him, afraid to risk damaging that remarkable mind, he draws in a rattling breath and falls heavily to the floor. 

Eobard could leave him there, helpless and insensible, until whatever time he wakes up. However, there’s a better option. He hurries out of the room, discards his Reverse Flash suit and tucks it away, and slips into a pair of soft flannel pajamas. Then he hurries back to Barry’s room, feigning alarm. “Barry? I heard a yell, is everything—Barry!” 

He flings himself down next to the tiny boy and cradles him in his arms. Barry’s eyes flutter open and he gasps. 

“He was here!” His voice rasps. The effort of speaking three words sends him into a coughing fit. Eobard cuddles him close until it subsides, well aware that the pressure will cause Barry terrible pain. 

“The man in the lightning?” he asks. “He was here?”

Barry nods and lets out a soft, hastily-stifled sob. “I tried to fight him and I couldn’t,” he rasps. “I couldn’t fight him.”

“Oh, shh.” Eobard cards his fingers through Barry’s hair. “Shh. Did he hurt you?” 

Hesitantly, Barry pulls off his pajama top and reveals clusters of rapidly purpling bruises. At least one of his ribs has snapped; two or three others are cracked. Every breath must cause him excruciating pain. At the last second, Eobard remembers to change his pleased sigh into a sympathetic coo. “Oh, Barry,” he whispers. “Come here. Let’s go get some ice on that before it swells, all right?” 

Because Barry shows no desire to move, Eobard scoops him up and carries him down the stairs. Before he takes three steps, Barry hunkers closer to him and wraps delicate, trembling arms around his neck. 

“Why would you try to fight him?” Eobard murmurs. He skims a thumb back and forth across a bruise above Barry’s hip. “He’s so much stronger than you.”

“He killed my mom.” Barry’s head swivels back and forth. Given the ring of bruises around his throat, it must hurt, but he probably expects the Reverse Flash to come lunging out of the darkness at any second. If only he knew. “I had to try. I had to!” 

Eobard sets him on the counter and goes in search of an ice pack. When he returns, Barry accepts the ice pack and presses it to the largest bruise, which spreads across the entire right side of his chest. “There are some fights you can’t win,” he says. The sooner the boy accepts that he can’t win against the Reverse Flash, the easier his life will be. “There’s no shame in running.” 

Barry bristles. “I’m not a coward!” he snaps loudly enough to hurt his injured throat. Eobard makes soft hushing sounds at him when he curls in on himself, rubbing at his neck. 

“I know you’re not.” Barry Allen, however small he might be, is anything but a coward. “But I would rather you run and live another day than stay, fight, and get hurt.” 

They stay in the kitchen for the better part of an hour, icing Barry’s various bruises. In a low, soothing voice, Eobard recounts the story of his first encounter with the man in the lightning (the Flash): how he’d sought him out, wide-eyed and hopelessly in love, and been grabbed and choked until he could barely speak. (At the time, when he’d explained, he’d taken the Flash’s horror at his explanation for an apology. Now, he understands the Flash realized in that moment that he’d just created his Reverse.) Barry reaches out a reverent hand and brushes ice-pack-chilled fingertips over the base of his neck. 

“I’m all right, Barry,” he murmurs. “And you will be too.” 

When Barry reports that the pain has dulled, Eobard offers him a glass of warm milk. He doesn’t expect the wrinkled-nose, curled-lips look of disdain. “No?”

“Warm milk is _bad,”_ Barry insists. “And it doesn’t actually make you sleep. My dad told me.” 

Eobard tilts his head. Barry—and, by extension, his father—is correct. “Orange juice, then?”

Shyly, Barry nods. Eobard pours him a glass of orange juice. (If, along the way, he happens to slip in a mild sedative, well. After the night he’s had, Barry needs it.) He drains it in a few greedy gulps, flinching after each one as though it hurts his throat. Eobard hides a smirk by turning to put the cup in the dishwasher. Slowing down, even to prevent pain, is evidently not one of Barry’s many capabilities. 

The sedative takes effect almost immediately. Because of this, Barry doesn’t object to being scooped and carried back to his room. He makes a hazy, unhappy noise low in his throat, but he’s so obviously incapable of walking that Eobard ignores it. By the time they reach his room, he’s deeply asleep. 

“There, little Flash.” Eobard tucks him into bed. Barry’s head lolls back on the pillow, exposing the ring of finger-shaped bruises around his pale throat. Eobard fits his hand back into place and allows himself three seconds to remember the rush of power he’d gotten from feeling Barry’s struggles weaken. “Just sleep.”


End file.
